


Fool's Paradise

by Starlithorizon



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, MJN Air Is A Family, Martin Crieff Whump, fantasy sort of, just a bit though, luck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:31:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is special in that he absorbs others' bad luck, turning it into good luck. He's generally quite okay with this, as it keeps the people he loves happy and safe. The trouble with this, though, is that it can get him into dangerously troublesome situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a bit, and figured that, hey, it's time to finally do something with it. I've seen some wonderful things about Martin and luck (I have a couple in my bookmarks on here, shouldn't be too difficult to find), and those definitely inspired this. I like to think that this is a fairly unique spin on it, though. Or, well, I hope it is!

It had been going on his whole life, and when something, anything, happens nearly every day of your life, it becomes a part of you. Though strange, and a little awful, it was as much a part of him as his bones and skin and quiet stammer. He had no idea how no one had picked up on it, but it was probably better that way. It wasn't a secret per se, but it would be awfully hard to explain, and even harder to get someone to actually _believe_ him.

He realised the truth of it when he was ten and Simon was fourteen. Simon was playing a game with his football league, and he was really very good. The whole family was there, with Caitlin rolling her eyes and being secretly proud of her brother, and Martin cheering as loudly as anyone.

He saw the force with which the ball was kicked, and its trajectory, and knew, just _knew_ where it was headed. It struck Simon harmlessly in the chest just as Martin was stung by a wasp. He was fine when it came to bees, but wasps? He was horribly allergic. He'd spent two days in the hospital, and he understood. The knowledge left him a bit weary, aching deeply in his bones, a quiet pain in the pockets within the marrow.

He thought back along his ten years, remembering all of the instances like this one. Like the time his friend had jumped off the roof with a bed sheet as a sail and came away without a scratch, while Martin sprained his wrist shortly after by _turning a doorknob_. Or the time his father had nearly crashed the van, swerving at the last second and making it out unharmed while Martin (supposedly safe in his room) had accidentally rolled right off the top bunk and been bruised for a week.

It didn't always work, and that was the tragedy of it. He wasn't sure _how_ it worked, but that was beside the point. He could have taken the brunt of the bad luck related to his father's heart attack, or of Douglas's wife cheating on him, but he supposed that those were things that were a long time coming. Luck was something different. It was a blinding flash, a spontaneous decision spinning out uncontrollably and doing what it liked with only a second between _here_ and _there_. Those two events, horrible though they were, had a different composition. They weren't like a ten-year-old David Beckham nearly concussing his older brother.

It was something he'd always had, and though he'd only properly discovered it at the age of ten, it had been swirling about him long before that. It was the thing, the one thing, that made him special. When he was born, he'd been healthy and happy, and his mother had been happy and healthy and tired. It was the best break he'd been given, a quiet little murmur of, _There, there, you deserve this moment, it won't always be like this_.

He'd learned to take everything as it came. He struggled to make ends meet in his little attic while his clients and the students below him thrived. Simply coming into contact with him was enough to provide one with a jolt of good luck.

Beyond that, he had either learned or simply acquired a very valuable skill. He could simply look at a person and see how they could benefit from his proximity. That's why he sat the CPL test seven times—he could tell each time when a proctor, or one of the other test-takers needed his peculiar brand of usefulness. He'd saved three lives, two marriages, and one shot at an Air England job simply by being in that room each time. That first piloting job he'd had was just that, but MJN was completely different.

It stayed afloat because he was there. Carolyn remained content with Herc, Arthur continued thinking that just about everything was brilliant, and Douglas never drank. He was the airdot's safety line, but he was also the saviour of each member of the crew. And oh, how he knew it. It filled him with tiny stars and suns and moons and made him feel _good_. He could live with toast and pasta and a humming ache in his back as long as he knew just how _vital_ he was. It was beautiful. It was _blissful._

He complained about all of the minor little tragedies to befall him (like constantly losing bets and buying fake Patek Phillipe watches and Arthur standing on his new umbrella), but honestly, there was nothing backing it. He grumbled because it was expected, though internally, he was all smiles because he knew the tiny troubles allowed for the others to stumble upon tiny little sparks of goodness. It was worth it, absolutely and completely.

He had to admit, though, that it was a bit more than just allowing them to have some extra happiness. These three, they were his family, as much as Mum and Simon and Caitlin. He wanted them to thrive, and that alone made _him_ thrive, despite the stupid little things that stuck in his skin like thorns. They were only too easy to ignore as they provided good opportunities to each of the other members of his makeshift family, and he truly didn't mind. He was used to it. His skin was a mass of scar tissue that could handle any slights luck could throw his way.

It wasn't martyrdom spinning him ever onward, either. It was, quite simply, and quite greatly, love.

Martin Crieff, absorber of bad luck and caster of good luck, had found something good despite it all.


	2. Chapter 2

In addition to his only-wonderful-in-the-right-light luck-shifting abilities, Martin Crieff had a superpower. Though, to be entirely honest, it wasn't a superpower. Unlike most people, it would seem, and in spite of everything, he made his own luck. He didn't pass the CPL that last time because he got _lucky_ —he had gotten that with a gritted determination. He didn't get the job at MJN because of a lucky break, he chose it because he understood what he would do for the company.

Perhaps he was one of a small group, or even the only one, but his life was not shaped by luck. Oh, it affected him greatly, but it was never his own. He was one of few, perhaps the only, who shaped his _own_ life, under his _own_ volition. Though Arthur may have been convinced of the first officer's magic, it was Martin who was closest to magical, luck thing aside.

One look at Martin's admittedly dreary life might prompt one to think that he was depressed, or resigned to his lot, or something, but he really wasn't. He was so much happier than his circumstances really warranted, and it shone emphatically behind his eyes, even while complaining about his broken aviator shades. He knew that he did more good simply by existing than many people did by putting forth actual effort. How could he be anything _but_ happy? Plus, he was living his dream and flying nearly every day—if that wasn't enough to ensure his happiness, then really, nothing could.

So, for years he worked at MJN, allowing so much bad luck to filter through him and become something good. So he might have twisted his ankle before their trip to Devon—he ended up saving Arthur from scalding himself with boiling water.

Speaking of that trip to Devon, it must be stated now that Martin's luck-related abilities extend far beyond his own humble self. It wasn't something he actively controlled, but sometimes he allowed luck to shift and switch parties just by being around. After all, how else would Douglas have forgotten he'd left the van keys in the piano? Either that, or he was just getting old, and that thought was just too impossible to hold onto.

It was beautiful and subtly important, the life he lived.

That was the thought he held tightly to after the incident with Arthur and the light bulb.

* * *

"Morning, Skip!" Arthur crowed, cheery as ever. Martin smiled at the steward as he draped his coat over the back of his desk chair and took off his winter cap and gloves.

"Morning, Arthur. Is your mum in yet?"

Arthur nodded. "Yeah, she's in her office. It's awfully cold outside today, isn't it?"

Outside, it was freezing. It was the sort of cold that caught in your throat and lungs, drifting menacingly against accidentally bared necks and wrists. It was the sort of cold that left one feeling as though their ears and nose would drop off simultaneously. The Portakabin was blissfully heated through, a hint as to just how long Carolyn and Arthur had been there.

"It's horrible," Martin griped, and this was one of very few genuine complaints from him. Cold was just hideous and sneaky, and he doubted that there was anyone who actually _liked_ the cold. Not those lovely things that went with the cold, like jumpers and fires in grates and cocoa warming hands through, but the cold itself.

"Do you want me to make you some coffee?"

"That would be wonderful, Arthur, thank you."

Martin sat down at his desk, running his fingers through his hair in an effort to make it look a bit less rumpled from the hat. They were only on standby, but that didn't mean he had to allow his hair to be unruly.

Douglas came in shortly after, cutting a dashing figure as ever in his well-cut coat and leather gloves. He didn't wear a hat against the cold, as he was clearly too dignified for anything of the sort. Well, Martin could see him wearing some felt thing with a brim, something Humphrey Bogart would have worn. It wasn't precisely practical, but it was _cool_. It was fitting for a man like Douglas, who was a bit peacock vain.

"Morning, Douglas!" Arthur called from his place by the coffee pot. "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you. Good morning, Martin."

"Morning, Douglas."

The three of them lapsed into easy silence as Martin completed whatever paperwork he could find and Douglas pulled out his novel. The gentle clink of metal against ceramic sounded from Arthur's corner, a nice little bit of domestic music washing over them. And with Carolyn in her office, probably reading a book or something, it was just _nice_. Even Martin, who wanted to spend as much time in the sky as was physically possible, could enjoy standby when it was as comfortable as this.

There was a muffled _Damn_ from the office before the door opened.

"Arthur, the bulb in here's burned out."

"Right-o!" Arthur promptly fetched the step ladder and new light bulb from the supply cupboard, trotting merrily into his mother's office. Martin got up to fetch his coffee from where Arthur had been, since he figured if would be a longer wait otherwise.

As he walked, he was immediately struck with a sharp, violent clarity. This had happened only a few times before. The one incident that he remembered most clearly was with his brother and the football. It was the feeling of something terrible about to hit him like a tsunami.

Martin didn't stop walking. As he did, he heard the quiet hiss as Arthur's bare fingers brushed the hot glass of the bulb. He could see it in his head: Arthur drawing his hand back too quickly, losing his balance, falling and striking his head against the corner of his mother's desk. There would be blood, and silent violence, and so much pain for everyone.

There was a quiet feeling of resignation deep in his bones as his ankle brushed against his chair, accidentally pushing it too far back. He missed the chair when he went to sit, spilling the scalding coffee as he took the force of Arthur's bad luck.

The last thing he saw before cracking his head against the edge of his desk was the sudden return of light in Carolyn's office.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, sorry about ending the last chapter in suspense like that.  
> Just kidding, I'm so not sorry.

It was beyond strange to wake up in a moving car. It was even stranger to wake up in the backseat of Douglas's Lexus, head on Arthur's lap. That likely made it easier for the steward to hold a flannel-covered bag of ice to his head.

"Oh, Skip, you're awake!" Arthur said, clearly torn between excitement and complete worry. "How do you feel?"

He took a brief stock of things so he could properly answer Arthur's question. There was a bandage wrapped around his left arm, and it stung tremendously. There was a sharp ache in the side of his head, and he could feel blood crusted in his hair. He clearly remembered what would have happened to Arthur, and he dimly remember what had happened to himself. Still, he would ask. Just to be certain.

"Well enough, I suppose," he mumbled. "Achy. What happened?"

"Don't you remember?" Arthur asked.

"Arthur, he hit his head. His memory may not be able to withstand such an injury," Douglas reminded him.

"Oh, yeah, right. Well, Douglas said that you fell on your chair, spilled your coffee, and hit your head against the edge of your desk. It was awful!"

Martin grimaced, the reminder of his injuries causing the pain to flare in his arm and head.

"Where are we going?" Martin finally asked.

"We're taking you to A and E. You managed to cut your scalp whilst introducing your cranium to your desk. Plus, we figured that you ought to get that nasty burn on your arm checked out."

Martin went to close his eyes, maybe rest during the car ride, but Arthur immediately nudged him.

"Douglas told me not to let you go to sleep, Skip. Just in case you have a conglomeration."

" _Concussion_ , Arthur," Carolyn corrected. "Where on earth did you get the word _conglomeration_?"

When they finally arrived at Fitton Hospital, Carolyn bullied everyone in sight so he could be admitted right away.

Hospitals were tricky places for Martin. If he walked in with an injury caused by another's bad luck, he was fine, but visiting while healthy was a bit dangerous. Luck played a part in medicine, more than anyone really was aware, and it was entirely too easy for Martin to get ill or hurt just by being there. Hopefully, this would be a quick in-out thing and he could go home.

"Good morning, Mr Crieff," his doctor said when he was taken into the room. "I hear you've run afoul of a desk and a cup of coffee...?"

Martin chuckled softly at that.

"Yes, I fell and managed to burn my arm with the coffee and cut my scalp on the desk."

"Right. Well, first, I think we should make sure you haven't got a concussion."

Once he was deemed un-concussed, the gash in his scalp was neatly stitched up, and his arm was treated for burns, he was free to go home. Carolyn held onto the small bottle of pain medication for him while Douglas thanked the Doctor. Strangely enough, the doctor laughed at Arthur's enthusiastic thanks and gave him a lolly, smiling at him like he was a child.

Douglas dropped Carolyn and Arthur off at the airfield, as their cars were there, and then proceeded to drive Martin to his house. Though Martin's head injury didn't look to have any lasting effects, the doctor had asked Martin to stay with someone overnight, just in case. Douglas, being a good friend (reign in your shock), accepted readily.

Of course, Martin knew that it was mostly because Douglas hated the resounding emptiness of his house. It was nice knowing that he was helping Douglas in such a quiet way, and completely on his own.

"You get settled on the sofa, I'll go make lunch," Douglas ordered, steering Martin toward the living room.

"Are you sure? I can help, I don't want to—"

"Martin, you recently hurt yourself quite badly. You'll rest, and I'll prepare a wonderful meal because, let's face it, I'm quite good at most things, and cooking is certainly one of those things."

Externally, Martin grumbled about being useless while he internally laughed at Douglas's little speech. He flopped down on the sofa and turned on the telly, flipping through various horrible daytime programs before finally finding an old film. Nothing was better when down for the count than a showing of _Dr. No_.

It wasn't long before a plate with a panini and fancy crisps was put on the coffee table in front of him. He and Douglas discussed their favourite James Bond books and films for hours.

It was a nice way to spend the night, but he had to admit that he was most pleased with the fact that Arthur was all right because of him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always comes down to Douglas's smuggling, doesn't it?

A little while after the light bulb incident, MJN Air was flying to Spain. Douglas had a few boxes of French perfume to trade for Spanish oranges, and Martin was as grumbly as ever. This time, it was a bit genuine. He always worried about Douglas getting caught, or worse. Douglas was his friend, and he couldn't stand it if his friend got in trouble from his smuggling.

Arthur bounded into the flight deck with Douglas's tea and Martin's coffee.

"Oh, I love Barcelona!" Arthur exclaimed.

"Arthur, we'll only be there for a couple of hours, and those hours will be spent in the airport," Martin reminded him.

"Well, it's a brilliant airport."

Both pilots figured that an argument was futile.

They landed without a hitch and soon found themselves in the aforementioned airport, dimly enjoying the bustling life of it. Douglas and Arthur headed out in search of Toblerones, and Martin went to find the pilots' lounge. As he was walking, he felt a none-too-gentle tap on his shoulder.

"Yes?" he asked, turning to face them. He looked up at a mountain of a man, tall and burly and menacing.

"Come with me, Mr Richardson," the man growled in a heavily accented voice, and before Martin could protest or correct him, he was grabbed by the arm and dragged into the very pilots' lounge he'd been looking for. The very nearly _empty_ lounge. There was one other man, just as haggard and frightening as the first, looming by a faintly worn out table and chairs.

"Please, sit," the first man snarled, shoving Martin forward. He stumbled and caught himself on the table, sinking on shaky legs to the chair. Martin stared up at him, terror coursing through every inch of him.

"I'm not—" he tried to choke out before the man reached out and slapped him heavily across the face. Blood burst hot and coppery across his tongue.

"I'd like to know why my shipment is _lacking_ ," the man sneered. Martin blinked.

Oh, God.

He knew, he just _knew_ that Douglas would get in trouble for his smuggling, and he felt an intense surge of gratitude for luck. It seemed they just knew that Douglas was the first officer of MJN, and it was only too easy to mistake Martin for the FO. It was quite the stroke of luck, really.

It was much better that he face this horror than his friend.

"I'm not Douglas Richardson, though!" he still snapped at the thug. The second man glowered at him.

"Douglas Richardson, first officer of M&M Air, right?" he asked, voice low and gravelly, more terrible than the simple gruffness of the other.

"I'm not, though, I'm the captain!"

Just because he was glad that this was happening to him rather than Douglas didn't mean he had to go down without a fight.

"You don't look like a captain."

Martin held up his sleeve angrily, jabbing at the gold braid.

"Four bars! _Four_! See?"

Both men laughed, and Martin bristled at that. It was one thing to assume that Douglas was the captain, it was another to laugh when one discovered that _Martin_ was the captain. He'd been dealing with it for so long that it eventually started to stop affecting him, but this made him want to snap and bite. These brutish idiots were just thugs, common criminals angry because they didn't have enough bottles of perfume.

 _Right_ , Martin thought, immediately before coming up with a positively moronic plan. Fortunately, before he could spring up and deck the first thug, Arthur and Douglas burst into the lounge. It wasn't that surprising to see Douglas looking so angry, but Arthur was positively _livid_. He roiled like a thundercloud. Anger was incongruous with Arthur, but rage was something that was just _wrong_ , like a smug hunter in a forest.

"Oh, _hello_ ," Douglas said, voice dripping with acidity. Arthur just raged silently at his side.

"Go away," the second thug snapped. "This don't concern you."

Douglas smiled like a scimitar.

"I rather think it does."

"Not now, guys," Martin said from his spot on the chair. All eyes turned to him, and Arthur looked close to boiling over. His hands were balled into trembling fists.

"I'd like to know what you're doing with our beloved captain," Douglas said.

"It ain't none of your business."

Martin took the brief moment to stand up and move closer to his crew. Arthur noted his face, the white-hot slash across his cheek from the brute's ring.

Dear, sweet, lovely Arthur Shappey who hadn't a bad bone in his body let out what could be best described as a roar and lunged forward, fist slamming against the first thug's jaw with such force that he fell instantly. There was a brief moment of thick stillness in the room, the calm before the tempest.

The second man made a dash at Arthur, only to be thrown aside like nothing by Douglas. The first man moved to attack, but Martin kicked him heavily in the side, feeling a bit bad but a lot vindicated. Not one member of MJN was prone to violence, but attack one of them and face the dire consequences.

Airport security quickly swooped in to end the brawl, likely notified by a passerby. Martin was grateful for them. They immediately recognised the other two, speaking in Spanish with efficient voices laden with authority. From what little Spanish he knew (and what tremendous Spanish Douglas knew, later translating for Martin and Arthur), the two were fairly major criminals wanted for several thefts and assaults around the city.

Once they were cleared and back on the plane, Martin and Douglas asked (with only a little trepidation) what had happened to make Arthur so damn _scary_. Because standing there, all tall and perhaps a bit brawny and looking positively murderous, he looked more menacing than even made sense.

Arthur shrugged and said, "I didn't like that he hurt our Skipper. You're one of my best friends, Martin, and I couldn't bear it."

"In all my life, I've never met anyone with worse luck than you," Douglas said when Martin finally explained to him and Arthur what had happened, telling them about the absurd mix-up.

Martin laughed for so long that he had tears in his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

"It wasn't actually all that strange," Martin admitted quietly to Arthur a few days later in the Portakabin. Arthur, who had been humming and dragging a wet cloth over a spill on the table that housed the coffee machine, looked up at Martin in confusion.

"What wasn't, Skip?"

"Those men mistaking me for Douglas."

There was a brief pause before Arthur bounded back into the conversation brightly and easily.

"Well, I don't think it would be. People do that all the time."

Martin chuckled softly under his breath, knowing full well that that wasn't at all what he meant. He felt a quiet thrum of nervousness in his belly as he thought about what he was about to do. He'd never told anyone about his abilities. They weren't a secret, exactly, but it was just very hard to explain. If anyone deserved an explanation, though, it was Arthur, and Douglas as well. Luckily, Douglas still had yet to arrive, and Carolyn was safely ensconced within her office.

"That isn't what I meant," Martin said. "I just— I'm used to this. To things like that. Remember when I fell and hit my head on the desk?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes, that was awful."

"Well, if that hadn't happened, you would have fallen off the stepladder and hit _your_ head."

Arthur's face scrunched in open confusion at that. Martin had to admit that it was an extremely odd thing to say, but it was as good a starting-off point as any.

"You see—and I won't pretend that this makes any sense, because it doesn't—I have this...ability. Sort of."

"Like a superpower?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I, well, I guess I... I take people's bad luck and give them good luck."

There, that wasn't so hard. Once he'd swallowed the half-lies and excuses and stories that might make more sense, the truth came out unclouded and steady. It didn't help to make the statement any less peculiar, but it worked.

"How do you mean?"

Arthur's face was bright and open. Not gullible, though, never that. He wasn't being fed a lie, and he could just tell. He radiated understanding, odd and beautiful as that was.

"I mean exactly that. If something bad is about to happen to a person, I sort of, well, _absorb_ their bad luck and change it into good luck. That's why bad things happen to me, so good things can happen to other people. When you would have fallen, that luck was given to me and I fell instead so you could be all right."

The steward blinked once, twice.

"So... You mean people's bad things happen to _you_ instead."

"Yes! That's it exactly!"

He let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"So, if I were to..."

And here, Arthur picked up the small knife kept in the box on the table, the one everyone used for cutting various fruits, and moved to slice a line along the pad of his thumb. Martin jumped up, grabbing Arthur by the wrist and staying his hand.

"It doesn't work that way. If something was a long time coming, like a, a h-heart attack, I couldn't stop that. And I can't stop things people knowingly do to themselves. Only luck, accidents, things that happen by chance. Remember that time you nearly dropped a pot of boiling water on yourself?"

Again, Arthur nodded.

"That was the same day I twisted my ankle, before our trip to Devon."

"Wow, Skip. I— I don't know if that's brilliant or not."

Martin smiled at Arthur, his continually kind friend.

"Don't worry, it absolutely is."


	6. Chapter 6

Telling Douglas was not at _all_ what Martin had expected. He ought to have known better, as they had been flying together for what felt like centuries, but he couldn't help it. Expecting Douglas to tease him was a reflex. But his fears had been unfounded, and he couldn't believe how nice that felt.

"Morning, Douglas," he said as said first officer strode into the Portakabin roughly fifteen minutes after Martin made his great admission to Arthur.

"Good morning, _mon capitan_ ," he said. "Arthur, tea."

"Right-o, Douglas!" Arthur practically skipped over to the coffee maker, leaving Douglas and Martin as alone as could really be managed. Martin anxiously shuffled and reshuffled paperwork, knowing full well that it was a bit neurotic by even his own standards. Douglas raised an eyebrow at his fidgeting.

"Everything all right?" he asked, the twist to his mouth belying the acerbic quality of his words. They were friends, it was only natural that he be concerned. It hadn't been long since the incident in Spain, either. He must have thought Martin was suffering something akin to PTSD or something.

Martin cleared his throat.

"I'm, uh, I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine," he stammered. It was blessedly true, too. He was a nervous wreck, but he really was okay. Just nervous. Douglas would be the second person he ever told, and it was kind of a big deal. Plus, he was a bit anxious about how Douglas might react.

He could just jump in and blurt it out, similar to how he'd done with Arthur. He _should_ do that, but he couldn't keep the fidgeting from amplifying at that thought.

Arthur placed the coffee on Douglas's desk then went to the sofa on the back wall where his book— _White Fang_ —lay. Martin made a mental note to get Arthur a few new books, perhaps something a bit more cheerful than Jack London.

"Martin, you're _twitching_ more than usual," Douglas drawled. "Mind you, you're quite a twitchy fellow, so this is mildly concerning."

Martin drummed his fingers lightly on the edge of his desk, right hand beating a soft tattoo right where his he hit his head just a couple of months before. There was a spot of blood that had seeped into a crack in the varnish, staining it.

"You remember those smugglers," he said, half whispering, afraid to speak louder, "back in Barcelona."

"Certainly I do," Douglas said, looking suspicious. Suspicion did a nice job of masking anything that might vaguely resemble worry. "What about them?"

"I— It wasn't that strange."

There was a lengthy, heavy pause before Douglas said, "I'll admit that you're an old hand at being mistaken for the first officer, but I'd imagine being mistaken for _me_ is infinitely less dull and common."

"Oh, _that_ was strange," Martin laughed. "But that's not what made it...not-strange."

"Then please, enlighten me."

Another deep breath before he could speak again.

Perhaps one more.

And another.

"Y-you see, I... Well, I can...sort of... _change_ luck."

For a moment, all Martin could hear was his heart in his stomach and the quiet rustle of Arthur turning a page. He held his breath, too afraid to move beyond absolute, reflexive necessity. Were he able, he'd still his heart for a moment in his wait for Douglas's response.

"How, exactly, does one _change_ luck?"

That had been the hard part. This would be easy. Martin's breath left in a _whoosh_ , air entering his lungs again and time swinging forward. It felt like coming back to life. Disbelief would be fine, he could handle it if it had to come to that, but the pause, the interminable wait had been horrible. It had lain heavy across his chest, leaving him worried for a moment that he was having a heart attack.

Martin explained his sort-of ability to Douglas, explaining it like he had for Arthur. He cited their frequent bets as proof, but admitted that he lost word games because he really was rubbish at them. That drew a smile from Douglas, and it was immediately obvious that things were okay, and that he actually _believed_ Martin.

"It explains quite a lot, actually," the FO said. "Really, _no one_ has such bad luck."

"Well, that's sort of the thing—I don't really have my own luck. See, most people have lots of luck naturally, good or bad, and that affects so much of their lives. I guess that, since I affect everyone else's, I'm allowed to sort of _make_ my own luck."

He told Douglas about how he passed the CPL finally, and how he was surviving by dint of his own determination and effort. Arthur had abandoned his novel by that point, listening in quite eagerly and punctuating Martin's story with a reverent _wow_.

Douglas just smiled in his usual Douglas way and said, "Goodness, Martin. I always knew you were a stubborn bastard, but clearly I had no idea."

A grin bloomed across Martin's face, and he felt a weight life from his chest, leaving him feeling free after he hadn't even noticed his captivity. It was wonderful.


	7. Chapter 7

He'd worried for a while after his big revelation about how it might affect how the crew treated him. Would Douglas stop betting with him? Would he make _more_ bets with him? Would Arthur take pains to eliminate any and all forms of bad luck within a ten mile radius?

God, he could just imagine the whole of Fitton laden with rabbits' feet and horseshoes.

He smiled wanly at the thought.

Simply assuming that Douglas would try to use Martin's luck thing for his own good wasn't giving him enough credit, though. True, Douglas was King of the Ulterior Motive, but he wasn't a bad person. Moreover, he was Martin's _friend_. There was some intrinsic kindness to the word, even when applied to Douglas Richardson.

Shockingly, he wasn't worried about Arthur telling Carolyn. It was partially because he knew Arthur wouldn't have to lie (how often does one ask about their pilot's bad luck?), but mainly because he wouldn't mind if Carolyn knew. It wasn't a secret, not really. Just accidentally so.

Having them know was a relief, too. It hadn't been weighing on him exactly, but it was just so nice knowing that he wasn't alone. That _someone_ knew what he was going through. He may not have minded too badly, but it did sort of separate him from everyone else. Having someone else in the world know was like bridging a gap he hadn't known was there. It was wonderful.

He was broken out of his reverie by Douglas suggesting another word game with a little grin. Martin grimaced inwardly, waving a hand to encourage Douglas to spout off his suggestions for Songs That Are More Interesting with a Word Replaced with a Food Item. "I Wanna Hold Your Toast" was an interesting one. "Bohemian Bacon" was less so.

"Douglas, do you ever worry with me on the flight deck? Now that you know...what you know?" Martin asked shortly after "Fur Watermelon" was played. Douglas raised an eyebrow.

"Why on earth would I worry? Barring the usual reasons, of course."

Martin shrugged, eyes firmly fixed on the controls in front of him.

Beside him, Douglas sighed.

"Martin, you know I don't think of you any differently now that I know. You're still my annoying captain, and this doesn't change that. Do you understand?"

A small smile drifted over Martin's face. Were they different people, not male or British or Martin or Douglas, he would have turned and beamed and thanked him and on and on. As it was, the little smile was enough and they flew on, unimpeded by unnecessary displays of emotion.

Arthur bounded into the flight deck shortly after, and he was struck by another wave of gratitude. Martin hadn't had many friends growing up, but it felt worth it knowing that he had friends like these. There were people in this world who never found a surrogate family like he had, who didn't have people who loved them so unconditionally, who weren't as _lucky_ as he was.

"Coffee for you, Martin, and tea for you, Douglas," Arthur said cheerfully, handing each pilot a steaming mug, grin throwing light like a star.

"Thank you," the pilots said in tandem. Arthur dropped into the jump seat, beaming at the windscreen.

"You know, I've been thinking," Arthur started. Martin bit back a laugh as Douglas frowned.

"It never spells good news when you say things like that, Arthur," the first officer said. It grew that much more difficult to keep from chuckling. Arthur carried on, undeterred.

"Martin, you know how people's good and bad luck affects you?"

"Quite well, actually."

"Right. So, well, what if we just made sure everyone had good luck?"

There was a pause, long and drawn out and _odd_.

"Arthur, you can't change the luck of everyone in the world," Martin said warily. If anything, Arthur's smile grew _bigger_.

"Of course not, Skip, that'd be silly! But I _can_ change the luck of everyone who comes on Gertie. And onto the airfield. At at my house, and at yours, and the grocery, and—"

Yes, of _course_ he could count on Arthur to be more than a little predictable. Martin knew firsthand that good luck charms didn't really work. He'd secreted more than he was willing to count around the house when he was growing up, curious to see if it might have any effect, and it quite emphatically did not. But, he was certain that it would make Arthur feel better. The poor steward was still feeling guilty over the desk incident.

"That's a very good idea, Arthur, but promise me you'll be subtle about it. I don't think Carolyn would like to see rabbits' feet hanging all over the cabin."

"Of course, Skip! I can be great at subtle!"

As this was said with one of Arthur's signature unsubtle full-body winks, Martin could only imagine what state he'd find the plane in the next day. He was kind of looking forward to it.


	8. Chapter 8

When Martin got out of his van at the airfield, he noticed a few little differences.

There were several little red ribbons tied to the entrance gate, which led Martin to raise an eyebrow. The Portakabin boasted a couple new bamboo plants, a small red lantern, little plastic bugs on each desk (he noted a cricket and a ladybug), cheerful ceramic animals scattered about (a dolphin, a turtle, and a frog), and horseshoes above each door.

Martin groaned and set his flight bag down by his desk, flopping down onto his chair.

It was really very kind of Arthur to have done all of this, but Martin dreaded telling him that it simply wouldn't work. Plus, he didn't want to spend his whole life throwing salt over his shoulder and whatnot.

Arthur burst into the Portakabin a couple minutes later, Carolyn at his heels.

"What do you think, Skip?" he asked brightly. "I saw this long list of good luck charms on the internet, and I thought that I could bring some of them here to give good luck to everyone who comes here! I also have some charms in Gertie's galley, and I gave Douglas a penny with his birth year, so he'll be even luckier. Do you think it'll help?"

Martin felt the denial on the tip of his tongue, wanted to tell the truth and get this nonsense out of here. Except for the bamboo; he liked the greenery.

"Ah, maybe, Arthur," he lied, smiling at the Steward. "It was very kind of you to do this."

Carolyn swept forward, and rather than demand what her son had done, and just nodded, looking for all the world as though she approved of his actions. She turned her gaze upon Martin, and he could tell.

She knew.

"This has been going on your whole life?" she asked, arching a brow in that way only she and Douglas could do and seem so easily intimidating.

"Yeah," he said, meeting her eyes.

"And has it affected my plane, my pilots, or my company in any negative way?"

He shook his head. "No, not at all."

"Then carry on doing what you're doing, and don't let Arthur to forget to water the plants."

She smiled at him, and he grinned back at her, and it was nice.

* * *

Despite the good luck charms secreted all over the plane, and the airfield, and Fitton, no one's luck changed without Martin's interference. They all treated him perfectly normally, though, even Carolyn. By this point, he was fairly certain that he could tell them _anything_ and he'd still just be their Martin.

He thought he had been happy, just letting everyone around him flourish simply by being there. That was _nothing_ compared to this, compared to knowing they knew what he could do and didn't care. They didn't love him more because of it, they just loved him anyway.

Martin knew that, no matter what he said or did, they would still care, and for that he was extraordinarily grateful. They were the biggest kindness that had been given to him, and he absolutely did not take it for granted. He knew just how lucky he was.

Yes, Martin Crieff, the fellow perpetually buffeted around by luck, the man who made his own luck, was one of the luckiest people around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end got sappy. They all do, that's how I roll.  
> I hope you guys enjoyed this, though! I was fun to write, and I loved playing with the idea.


End file.
